


The butcher's knife is sheathed.

by Wapwani



Category: Star Trek: Discovery
Genre: F/F, Fix-It, but that will have to wait for another fic, first I have to make Georgiou be not-dead, look we all know they're in love, mostly angst, no one dies on my watch
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-10
Updated: 2017-10-10
Packaged: 2019-01-15 11:53:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,277
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12320571
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wapwani/pseuds/Wapwani
Summary: post-episode 4. There is no way in hell that Michael Burnham will accept that Philippa Georgiou's final resting place is a Klingon's belly.





	The butcher's knife is sheathed.

**Author's Note:**

> This is a bit rough and ready, but ye gods if ever I needed to write a fix it, it was for this episode. 
> 
> Also, contains a massive tip of the hat to Sisko's journey.

The words echo in her mind, making a mockery of her control, making her hands tremble into fists as she goes striding down the brightly-lit corridors. It’s too bright. There’s nowhere to hide. She needs shadows. She understands Ripper more now than she ever has - understands the need to find a dark cave where you can curl up away from prying eyes and let the anger and pain consume you.

Saru had pieced the transmission together on the bridge. He turned his big sad eyes towards her as the broken hiss reconciled into recognisable words, the computer giving them an inflectionless monotone.

_“…will pick your bones clean…feast on you..like we did your Captain…”_

_Like we did your Captain._

Michael had held out a faint hope that perhaps, somewhere in the midst of this bloody war, she would find where the Klingons had dumped Philippa’s body, and finally be able to bring her Captain home. But now even that faint hope was extinguished, guttering out in the force of an emotionless translation of Klingon cruelty.

Lorca had ordered her to the lab to get Ripper ready for a jump.

“We’re going to track that bastard,” he’d growled. “Track him right up his nose.”

For once, Michael felt no sense of conflict in following Lorca’s orders. They would find Voq and they would make him pay. Make him pay for  _pick your bones clean, like we did your Captain._

She makes it through the lab doors before she collapses to her knees, retching, her fingers flexing against unforgiving deck plating as she fights for an anchor, fights for grounding, fights to not lose herself in the images those words conjure.

Ripper howls mournfully in his glass cave. He knows what the sight of her means. But he doesn’t offer any more resistance than that. He’s too weakened after weeks of trials and tests to do more than try to show her how much he hurts with his moans and howls. He knows there’s nowhere for him to hide, but he still pulls back against the wall when Michael lowers the shield door.

She has the harness ready in moments; the process is familiar to her now, but she does not want to dwell on how easily this comes to her.  _Why_  it comes so easily to her.

Ripper moans when the metal clasps click into place. He has no eyes she can discern, yet she knows he is looking at her. She can feel the weight of his stare. He howls again, a mournful plea that she needs no computer to translate, and it drives Michael to her knees.

“I’m sorry,” she gasps. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. But we have to make him pay.”

The spores rise up and swirl around them both, as though they are reacting to their shared despair.

Michael can feel electricity fizzle along her skin. She hears Lorca’s voice over the comm. “Burnham! What are you doing down there? We’re reading elevated-“

His voice fades, turns into something else, runs over into memory.

_They can take you wherever you want. **When** ever you want._

Michael is sobbing now.

“Please?”

She knows she’s echoing Ripper, giving his howls meaning.

The spores coalesce, brighten, so bright they are blinding her.

She does not question why she does what she does. Does not make any justifications -  _I was only a child then. I could not have done anything to change the outcome of the attack._  Does not try to soften her actions with -  _my parents are a distant, blurred memory. Too far away for me to reach._

She knows why she does it. She may not be able to articulate it in this moment, but she knows. She knows that she is forever trapped on the bridge of that alien ship while her world goes to hell around her. No matter how far she flees across the galaxy, no matter how many months or years may pass, no matter how many triumphs and losses she racks up, she has never moved from that spot.

So that is where she asks the spores to take her.

It feels oddly like a transport. Like she’s materialising in another room. Except this room is her own body, ten months ago.

She’s caught in the vice of Voq’s grip. To her left she can hear Philippa grunting as she swings the blade. Klaxons are blaring and sparks dance through the heated air.

Michael howls, desperation lending her strength and speed. She jabs her thumbs into Voq’s eyes and is spinning, grabbing her phaser, aiming it without thought, knowing exactly where to aim because she’s re-lived this moment a thousand times in her nightmares.

T’kumva’s arm is descending in his strike when Michael’s phaser bolts catch him. His back flares orange, and his blade slashes wildly across Philippa’s chest. But it’s a shallow blow, Michael can tell. The Klingon’s fallen, and her Captain is scrambling to reach him. Michael knows that Philippa is trying to save him, and her heart swells with a heady joy.

She is at Philippa’s side in seconds, her eyes wide, her throat so constricted with happiness, she cannot speak when her Captain barks orders at her.

“Michael! What the hell is wrong with you?” Captain Georgiou is shouting, as she tries to beat life back into T’kumva’s body, even as her own red blood spills from her wound. Michael raises a hand to try to staunch the bleeding, and sees that her skin is glowing.

The spores are swirling around her again. She can feel the electric tingle against her skin.

“No,” she whispers. She completes her action, touches her fingers to Philippa’s (warm, living) skin. The spores flow from her hand and wrap around Philippa.

Georgiou starts back. “What the-“

“Philippa!” Michael cries, but whatever declaration she would have made comes too late. The Captain is disappearing in a brightening glare, and Michael can hear Saru on her comm, “I’ve lost the Captain’s life signs. I’m getting you out of there Commander!”

Michael is smiling brightly, beaming with joy, when the transporter takes her.

That joy quietens in the next few weeks, when she faces her court-martial again, and is sentenced to life imprisonment. She doesn’t know how to explain what has happened, so she mentions it to no one. Perhaps it is a fever dream - something her all too human mind has created to ease her grief. Being able to tell herself that somewhere in the universe Philippa Georgiou lives. To allow her to hold on to the hope that the spores took Philippa somewhere pretty, where there is sun and a beach, and clear skies so she can star-gaze from the safety of land.

She goes through it all, lives through it all again. And somewhere along the line, the joy dims so much that there are days she forgets. Forgets that her Captain lives. She hates herself a little more on the days she remembers.

But then Saru translates the words.  _“…will pick your bones clean…feast on you..like we did your Captain…”_

And her mind screams  _liar!_  And she’s running for the lab almost before Lorca has given her the order. And Ripper is howling in despair, and Michael is sobbing, And the spores are swirling, glowing bright enough to hurt, then fading, falling away, leaving behind only the battered, bleeding form of Philippa Georgiou.

Michael falls into her, still sobbing. And Philippa may be confused - confused beyond all power of description - but her arms tighten around her First Officer and she holds her close.

“Michael,” she says at last, her voice hoarse. “What the  _hell_  is that thing?”

 

**Author's Note:**

> And even if I don't write a follow up, you can assume that Michael is going to free Ripper, and tell Lorca to go stuff himself, she's got a better captain to serve now.


End file.
